ould believe no one," she said, "I will believe no one--until--unless
you tell me. Uncle Jethro," she cried in agony, "Uncle Jethro, tell me
that those things are not true!"

She waited a space, but he did not stir. There was no sound, save the
song of Coniston Water under the shattered ice.

"Won't you speak to me?" she whispered. "Won't you tell me that they are
not true?"

His shoulders shook convulsively. O for the right to turn to her and tell
her that they were lies! He would have bartered his soul for it. What was
all the power in the world compared to this priceless treasure he had
lost? Once before he had cast it away, though without meaning to. Then he
did not know the eternal value of love--of such love as those two women
had given him. Now he knew that it was beyond value, the one precious
gift of life, and the knowledge had come too late. Could he have saved
his life if he had listened to that other Cynthia?

"Won't you tell me that they are not true?"

Even then he did not turn to her, but he answered. Curious to relate,
though his heart was breaking, his voice was steady--steady as it always
had been.

"I--I've seen it comin', Cynthy," he said. "I never knowed anything I was
afraid of before--but I was afraid of this. I knowed what your notions of
right and wrong was--your--your mother had them. They're the principles
of good people. I--I knowed the day would come when you'd ask, but I
wanted to be happy as long as I could. I hain't been happy, Cynthy. But
you was right when you said I'd tell you the truth. S-so I will. I guess
them things which you speak about are true--the way I got where I am, and
the way I made my livin'. They--they hain't put just as they'd ought to
be, perhaps, but that's the way I done it in the main."

It was thus that Jethro Bass met the supreme crisis of his life. And who
shall say he did not meet it squarely and honestly? Few men of finer
fibre and more delicate morals would have acquitted themselves as well.
That was a Judgment Day for Jethro; and though he knew it not, he spoke
through Cynthia to his Maker, confessing his faults freely and humbly,
and dwelling on the justness of his punishment; putting not forward any
good he may have done; nor thinking of it; nor seeking excuse because of
the light that was in him. Had he been at death's door in the face of
nameless tortures, no man could have dragged such a confession from him.
But a great love had been given him, an